Joanne
by sergeant-bullshit
Summary: As a member of the American Red Cross, Joanne was in France treating the wounded and being exposed to the horrors of the Great War. After leaving America to reunite with an old friend, she unexpectedly meets one of the Shelby children by chance. Before she knows it, the troubled nurse is caught up in the gangster's lifestyle and is unable to escape the grip of the Peaky Blinders.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Someone was always screaming.

The shrieks of the dying were like no other; the sound bounced off the stone walls of the old Methodist church. The wails of the damned did not even come close to comparison to the agonizing sound of a dying soldier. Sometimes the screams aren't even from the pains of the wounds, mostly it was from the deterioration of the mind. Joanne had become accustomed to everything: blood and gore, but the screaming, she could never get used to that. Sometimes the cries were so horrible that Joanne felt a scream rise in her own throat, but she never let it out. Her job was to remain calm for the soldiers, if she started to scream along with the injured men she would be dismissed by the chief nurse immediately.

Even observing the men screaming made her heart drop like a brick to her stomach. The eyes would always bulge, the carotid artery would throb under the skin of the neck, they would sweat so profusely as if they had a bucket of water dumped on them. It didn't matter if the soldier was American, French, Canadian – they all screamed the same. Joanne would often have to hold them down, grasping their shoulders as they fought against her like a rabid animal. When they screamed, spittle would fly from their mouth, spewing the nurses until a doctor had finally arrived to sedate them. By the end of each ordeal Joanne's hands would start to tremble, a tick that had started a few months after she had first arrived in the fall of 1917. She couldn't even hold a scalpel when her hands started shaking like an alcoholic going through withdrawal. Another nurse would take over and Joanne would leave, hurrying away from the cries of pain and to the remote safety of the outdoors.

Joanne sat on the steps of the church, now named Base Hospital # 5, pressing her hands in between her knees to try to stop the shaking. Outside wasn't peaceful, the Great War was raging from a distance outside in Brest, France. But Joanne would take the sound of artillery strikes over screaming. Silence could be just as bad as the screaming when her shift was over; anything to fill in the space of that dreadful sound was welcome to her.

Joanne stared down at her white nurse's cap. Her shaking hands were stained red with blood, as was her white apron with the giant red cross on it. The red matched her fiery crimson hair, which she desperately tried to contain. Some of the blood on her slender fingers was fresh, so it left smears on her once immaculate white cap. Twisting her cap with her hands helped eased the shaking for a bit. She wrung her cap like it was a hated German's neck until the trembling subsided. She placed her now still hands in her lap and dipped her head as she sighed deeply. It hadn't been long since she trained and was shipped overseas with thousands of other nurses, and she was already showing signs of stress. America got involved in the war late, her time of service had only been a few months. She felt pathetic and slightly scared at how quickly war was affecting her mind.

The fresh air suddenly felt like breathing in smog. She felt like she was suffocating and stood up to head back in. There were plenty of wounded men to treat and she was no use to anybody sitting outside ruining her white cap. She placed her cap back on her untamed, curly hair, and went to find her next patient.

 **0000**

Joanne preferred to work the nightshift. Other than occasional moans of a wounded soldier, stirring in a cot, nighttime at Base # 5 was mostly peaceful. Sometimes a truckload of wounded would pull up and drop off the critically injured, but not too often. Night was a time of tranquility. The other reason Joanne preferred the nightshift was because of her restlessness when she tried to sleep. Wakefulness gripped her tightly and refused to let go, even when the dark purple bags under her eyes had formed. She couldn't take the silence, and the nurse's quarters were oh so silent. The women breathed quieter than mice and most slept right when their heads hit the pillow, but not Joanne. She gripped her covers until her knuckles turned the color of milkweed, her mind unable to rest. Her eyes were wide and alert, even in the dark. She wasn't sure if it was fear keeping her awake, and if it was she didn't know what exactly she was afraid of.

Soldiers pass away here all the time, she was used to death and the terrible injuries that caused it. Germans raiding the hospital was always a possibility. One of the soldiers going mad from shell shock wasn't uncommon, sometimes nurses were attacked because they were mistaken for an enemy solider in a trench. None of that struck fear into her heart, they were all awful things, but sympathy was fading with familiarity. That was probably what made her so afraid: fear that she was losing who she was. She never imagined she could be so cold, direct, and analytical when she watched a soldier die and move on to the next man to be treated. She cared about her patients as much as any good nurse, but she found herself being able to withstand so much death without shedding a single tear. It frightened her, but the same went for the other nurses. They all had a professional and serious responsibility, and mourning was not part of their job.

Losing basic human empathy in such an awful time made her feel ill. She wanted to be caring, loving, and sympathetic to those who died or crippled. She had been exposed to the extreme horrors of what man could inflict on one another. Eventually sleep would find Joanne by pure exhaustion, and hold her in a vice-grip of restlessness. She would be suspended between being awake and asleep; that strange purgatory that forced her to remain alert. On the rare occasions when she would drift into a deep sleep, her dreams would haunt her subconscious.

She would dream of the screaming.


	2. A Piece of Glass

**Chapter 1: A Piece of Glass**

 ** _Birmingham, England_**

 ** _2 years later_**

 _'Dear Joanne,_

 _I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know we have not spoken or seen each other in a good while, but I am writing to offer you an opportunity. Nothing has been the same since the war. I know you can feel it, too. I have been unable to adjust back home and I suspect you have the same feeling. I am not sure, call it a hunch. I found a way to cope. Perhaps I should explain to you what I mean:_

 _There is a shortage of nurses at Birmingham General Hospital. You are a good nurse and a dear friend, and I do not want to venture across the pond on my own. This is a chance to continue to do some good, and do it not in a war. I know I am asking a lot of you, but I think this would be great for us._

 _Please consider coming with me, Joanne, think about what we could do._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Mary'_

Joanne re-read the letter once again, keeping herself occupied as the train chugged along toward the station. On the back of the letter was an address to the flat where the two women would be staying.

Her and Mary had, what Joanne believed, a telepathic form of communication. Even during the war, they would know what the other is feeling at nearly the exact same time. It was eerie how well they could read each other without speaking. Mary had written in the letter: _I know you feel it, too,_ and that was the honest-to-God truth. Coming home felt like entering a foreign land after the war ended. Her family's large farm in Kentucky didn't bring any nostalgia to comfort her, instead it brought an uneasy sense of isolation.

 _And the screaming… dear Lord in heaven above, the screaming just wouldn't stop._

Joanne couldn't talk to anybody about the war without the other person truly understanding what she was saying to them. They would just nod, their eyes squinted in that forced way to show sympathy, and they would always say something like: 'gee, I bet that was just awful!' or 'oh dear, this is why you shoulda stayed home!'

None of Joanne's friends had joined the Nurse Corps, they remained home to become housewives, or in most cases, raise their children while their husbands went off to war. Most of the men in Joanne's small town didn't return. The number of dead and wounded was so astronomical, that most citizens didn't understand the numbers, but Joanne did, oh God did she ever. She witnessed some of those deaths first hand; she _felt_ them die as she held their shivering bodies as their souls slipped away. No one understood, and that is what frustrated Joanne, and made her depressed to the point of even considering leaving the country. She needed a change of scenery, she needed to try to outrun the screams. Those screams that would creep at the back of her mind, hiding in her subconscious, waiting for a moment of peace to surround her.

But Mary understood, she understood it all. Mary had been there and endured the same horrors that Joanne did. She had seen the death, and she too couldn't settle at home again. Mary had to get away from the familiar faces that no longer offered her joy. Joanne felt the same urge to escape, and that's why Mary wrote her. That's why the young Kentucky born woman was in Birmingham.

Joanne rubbed her temples. The train suddenly was way too loud and the space way too tight. She slipped the letter in her clutch, and held it close in her lap. She didn't feel any ounce of excitement, instead she felt nervous and uncomfortable. She hadn't seen Mary for almost a year, she was afraid of what she would say.

 **0000**

Finding her new home was far more difficult than Joanne thought. Birmingham was a dirty city covered in soot with a grey hue looming over. The streets were dank, and the people who walked them weary. The houses and flats that lined the sidewalks all looked exactly the same. People stared at her as she hurriedly walked the streets, glancing at the address on her letter, but Joanne was used to people staring at her. She was an unusual looking woman. Her vibrant red, curly hair contrasted against the bleak setting of Birmingham; she was taller than the average woman, and her slender figure turned thin during the war made her appear gangly. She tried to control her wild hair under her hat and blend in wearing the popular fashion look known as war crinolines. She pulled a suitcase along, packed with all she owned in the world. Her attempts had failed, though, everyone's eyes were glued to her, she could feel them.

Joanne's uneasiness began to grow as she searched the streets unsuccessfully. She had no idea where she was headed as she felt like she was wandering the streets aimlessly. She forced herself not to panic, but her palms were already growing slick with sweat. She couldn't run around shouting Mary's name, she would look like a lunatic, and she knew her presence had already struck the people of Birmingham as strange.

A crashing sound followed by a wail shook her from her thoughts. Joanne glanced over to her left to see two children in the shadows of an ally. One of the children was on the stone-paved ground, holding his leg in pain. Another child stood over him worriedly. By instinct Joanne went over to see what had happened. As Joanne neared she noticed the children were a boy and a girl, both around the age of four or five. The little girl whirled around, startled as Joanne approached, but the boy was too focused on grasping his leg to care.

Joanne stopped, holding out her hands to show she wasn't a threat.

"It's okay, I just heard someone scream and I wanted to make sure no one was hurt," Joanne said in a soft voice.

The young girl cocked her head to the side, her brows furrowing as Joanne spoke. "You talk funny," the girl pointed out.

The boy let out another groan of pain, drawing Joanne and the girl's attention to him. Joanne saw that he was sitting on a broken crate, and had a shard of glass sticking out of his shin. Joanne moved closer to get a better look. The boy peered up at her tearfully, his lip trembling as he held onto his bleeding leg.

"I'm a nurse, can I take a look?"

The boy only looked back down at his leg, but he didn't protest. Joanne noticed how shabby both children appeared. Neither of them were wearing shoes, their bare feet were coated with dirt. Their faces were smudged with dirt as well, and their hair disheveled. The girl had messy twin braids that were coming undone, and the boy's undercut was completely unkempt. At first glance Joanne thought these poor children were feral.

Joanne opened her suitcase and pulled out some medical supplies. She never traveled without them. It was nice to know they were going to good use now. She scanned his leg with expert eyes. The shard of glass wasn't in too deep, but just enough for her to know she'd have to apply a tourniquet. With her shoe, Joanne pushed the other pieces of shattered glass away from him.

"What's your name," Joanne asked the boy and girl, making herself smile to ease the boy.

"I'm Katie, this is James," the girl answered.

"I'm Joanne. Okay James, I want you to hold Katie's hand and squeeze it as hard as you can."

"Why?" James finally spoke, his voice coming out as a stammer.

"It'll make this easier."

The children held each other's hands, eyeing the strange woman suspiciously. She quickly pulled out the glass before James could protest. To his surprise he barely felt it, his energy was focused on holding Katie's hand tightly. Joanne took a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and wet a cloth.

"This is going to be the hard part, James, but I have to disinfect your wound," Joanne informed him. "This is going to sting a little."

Joanne started to dab the cut with the peroxide when James jerked away with an angry hiss.

"That 'urts!" He snapped.

"I know, but it will make your cut better," Joanne replied, her tone sympathetic.

James gulped but didn't argue. The young boy dropped his head and let her continue to clean his cut. He groaned and would pull away, making the process even longer. Katie watched it all with wide, curious eyes, still holding the boy's hand.

Lastly Joanne placed a different cloth on his shin, then used gauze to wrap it up. She made sure it was tight enough to stint the bleeding, but not too much to where it cut off his circulation. Joanne smiled at him as he stared down at his leg, moving it slowly back and forth.

"All done. You were very brave."

"You ar' an angel!" Katie exclaimed.

"Not with _that_ hair," James countered.

Joanne couldn't help but laugh. Whoever these children were, they were very witty.

James stood up gingerly, favoring his other leg for support. Katie still held onto his hand, making sure he was well balanced before she let go. Joanne felt sorry for these children, she wasn't even sure if there was anyone around to take care of them. If these children were orphans she couldn't just leave them alone in the alleyway.

"Do you have mothers waiting for you," Joanne questioned.

Katie's large, light blue eyes studied Joanne. There was a wisdom behind those eyes that were well beyond her age. James appeared far too strained to even attempt to peer up at her.

"Aunt Polly said our mum went up to heaven," Katie answered matter-of-factly.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," Joanne responded, feeling terrible now. "So you two are brother and sister?"

"Yes," Katie nodded.

"Are you lost? Do you know where your aunt is?"

"Yes, she's with dad I think."

So these desolate looking children did have a family. Joanne gave their dismal appearance another long look.

"I'll walk you two home," Joanne offered. She wanted to speak to an adult about caring for the boy's wound, anyway.

 **0000**

Joanne followed the children, pulling her luggage behind her as she watched Katie hold her limping brother up. Joanne was bothered that these children were playing around this city unsupervised. Watching James' wobbling gait made anger flare at the pit of her stomach. What kind of father lacked this much responsibility? His poor son could have died, and he wouldn't have even known about it. She calmed her thoughts, knowing that this family's affairs were none of her business, and that she had no right to try to tell someone else how to raise their children. She was only escorting these children to safety, then she'd leave to find Mary.

They turned a corner, which led to a building with a sign that read THE GARRISON in bold letters. She was surprised to see the children approaching the entrance of the building.

"Is this a pub," Joanne questioned.

"Aye, dad might be here," Katie replied, opened the door and practically dragging her brother in.

Joanne shook her head in mild disgust and followed the children in.

"Oi! I just mopped this floor!" An angry man bellowed at the children as they scurried by him, leaving dirt tracks. "Goddamn Shelby kids…" He grumbled under his breath. He noticed Joanne standing in the entrance. He rose an eyebrow at her.

"Do you know where those children's father is," Joanne asked the man.

"That accent, where ya from?"

"America."

"What's a bloody Yankee doing in the likes of Birmingham?"

Joanne was taken aback by his tone, but she was not explaining something so personal to this stranger.

"I just came to drop off those children. The boy is injured," Joanne answered curtly.

The sound of a crashing bottle rang through the pub. The man groaned, turning away from Joanne.

"Those damn kids! Grace, watch the door for me," the man retreated to the back rooms of the pub, leaving Joanne alone with a blonde barmaid that she hadn't noticed before.

Joanne stood at the center of the pub awkwardly, debating whether she should leave or stay put. Clearly the man knew the children, so she could leave them in his care. The barmaid studied her out of the corner of her eye as she busied herself wiping down the bar.

"How badly is the boy injured," the barmaid named Grace spoke up. She seemed genuinely curious, not just trying to make small talk.

"I found him in an ally with a piece of glass in his leg," Joanne explained. "I didn't want to leave them like that, so they led me here."

Grace said nothing right away, as if she was contemplating Joanne's words.

"Would you like a drink," Grace finally inquired.

Joanne supposed she could stay; she was still unsure if the children were in a secure environment. She wheeled her suitcase over to the bar and sat on a stool. She removed her hat, shaking her hair out. The red curls bounced around and stuck out wildly around her face. Joanne smoothed it back, self-conscious.

Grace gave her a small smile, "what would you like?"

"Whiskey." She grew up around whiskey. Her father always mixed it with his iced tea, a combination she didn't really care for.

Grace produced a glass and poured a shot of whiskey into it. Before Joanne could reach for a drink, the doors to the pub burst open, making Joanne jump. Three men entered, all wearing Jaxon hats, coats with suits underneath. The very presence of these men demanded attention.

"Harry!" One of the men yelled. He appeared to be middle-aged with a moustache.

The man that had went after the children in the back rooms appeared again, looking visibly annoyed.

Another one of the men glanced at the ground. He appeared much younger than the moustache man; with a cherub face and slight rounded nose. The last man had the highest cheekbones Joanne had ever seen, and piercing blue eyes that seemed like they could stare directly through a person.

"Harry, there's dirt all o'er the floor!" The cherub-faced man shouted, "you're supposed to be keeping this place looking presentable!"

The high cheek boned man's intimidating eyes flitted over toward Joanne and Grace. Joanne felt heavily scrutinized under the gaze of those striking blue eyes. For once in her life Joanne felt small.

"I just mopped the floor! It was your kids that did this!" Harry exclaimed, pointing at the cherub-faced man.

His face fell at Harry's words. The other two men looked at him, then back at Harry.

"What are they doing in The Garrison," the cherub man asked.

"I don't know, they came runnin' in here with that woman," Harry pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at Joanne. The men's eyes all landed on her, and she swore she felt her heart leap in her throat.

The children's father's eyes narrowed on her, suspicious and untrusting. Joanne could smell trouble from a mile away, and she was in deep shit, she just knew it. She remained sitting in the barstool, not knowing what to do or how to respond. Her mouth had already gone bone dry.

"Dad!"

Katie came racing out of the back room, her arms outstretched toward her father. The cherub man stared down at her as she embraced his lower body.

"James is hurt," she reported.

All their eyes fell back on Joanne, making her squirm.

"Get up," the man with the wild blue eyes demanded.

Joanne obeyed shakily, slowly sliding off the barstool. The cherub face man went up to her, visibly angry and accusing. He looked her up and down as she pressed her back against the bar, trying to create as much distance between them as possible.

"John, it wasn't her," Grace piped up.

"Aye, she brought your kids here. She patched up the boy's leg," Harry added, still cross.

"She fixed James, Dad," Katie chimed.

John looked at Joanne again, still skeptical, then glanced back down at Katie.

"What happened?"

"James was trying to climb the ladder in the ally. He fell onto a wood box that had a bottle in it, I think, and it hurt him bad," Katie explained, unfazed by the tension in the room.

"What were your kids doing trying to climb a fire escape, Johnny," the moustache man asked, his tone was like a jab.

"Shut up, Arthur," John snapped.

"This lady came and fixed him. She had medicine in her bag," Katie looked toward Joanne, a big smile spreading on her dirty face. "She talks funny, but she's nice."

"Where's James," John asked his daughter.

"He's in the back resting," Harry answered for her, cocking his head toward the back room.

"I guess we ought to thank you, then," the intimidating blue-eyed man said, crossing his arms. Something about his tone didn't sound very grateful.

"I… I just wanted to make sure they made it somewhere safe…" Joanne managed to say at last.

John didn't like her answer, "What? You don't think I can keep my own kids safe?"

Joanne shrunk back, rendered speechless again. The intimidating blue-eyed man grabbed John's shoulder, giving him a soft jerk backward.

"Leave 'er be, John, go check on your boy," he stated, as if it were an order.

With one last menacing glance cast toward Joanne, he huffed off, Katie trailing behind him. Joanne took this as her cue to leave, she didn't want to be in this pub any longer. Joanne searched hastily through her clutch, gripping a few shillings. She still had to pay for the whiskey.

"I don't really understand the currency here yet," Joanne said as she placed a few shillings on the table.

Grace looked surprised at the change, "oh, that's far too much."

"Keep it, I don't know what I'd do with it anyway," Joanne responded, hurriedly placing her hat back on her untamed hair, gripping her clutch and suitcase, and heading for the door. She ducked past the two remaining men, not wanting to look them in the eye.

Before she opened the door, she remembered something of key importance. She nervously looked back at the crowd, who were all staring at her in fixed curiosity and mild bemusement.

"Make sure that boy's bandage is changed every forty-eight to seventy-two hours, or it'll get infected."

With that being said, she left the pub without looking back.


	3. Flanders Blues

**Chapter 2: Flanders Blues**

 ** _One week later_**

Joanne walked home from the hospital after her shift was finished. Her shift ended midday, right when Mary would begin hers. The two women had such differing schedules that they rarely saw each other, even while they were living under the same roof. By the end of Joanne's shift she would be so achy and exhausted that she would be in a daze when she walked across the streets of Birmingham. It was like she was floating down the street instead of walking, like a stumbling drunkard. Dark purple bags had already developed under her eyes, looking like someone had smudged paint on her face. But Joanne didn't care, she liked this. Her uniform wasn't (usually) coated in someone else's blood when she left, and she would actually get breaks, and there was plenty of equipment and rooms in the hospital. Things were sterile, patients were comfortable with beds and sheets.

She would take the tiresome schedule of the hospital over being in France again any day.

Joanne's appetite to help others wasn't easily sated, so she found herself content and constantly wanting to improve in her career. She liked the pace, she liked the smell of antiseptic, the wages were manageable between her and Mary. Joanne was growing accustomed as she tried to adjust from country living in America, to the working class life in Birmingham.

She rubbed her heavy eyes and yawned. She didn't sleep much, even before the war her average hours of sleep were five or less. She was a restless girl with many thoughts. After France her dreams had become so terribly twisted that she found herself sleeping even less. The gut-wrenching memories played like vivid movies behind her closed eyelids as she lay in bed at night, unable to do anything but watch.

 _The screaming, Christ Almighty the screams…_

Right as Joanne was thinking about screaming grudgingly, an actual scream tore through the wind. She stopped in her tracks, as did other bystanders, turning toward the wretched sound to see what was going on. A bald man was slumped against one of the many identical, coal colored buildings that lined the streets. He was wailing like he was being tortured; the very sound of it made Joanne moan and her stomach lurch. The man banged his fist against the building, and continued to shriek. People just stared at him, either with a blank expression or with amused curiosity, but no one took a step forward. Joanne couldn't take it, she had to stop that screaming.

She approached the man slowly, his back turned to her. As she neared she saw that his hands were split open and bleeding from hammering and clawing at the building continuously. He was breathing quick, rapid breaths like he was running a marathon, and was still letting out a sharp, guttural shrieks every few seconds. Joanne guessed him to be a lunatic, and lunatics weren't people to mess with unless she wanted to be mauled right in the street. But her need to assist was greater than her fear.

"The walls… they're in the bloody walls!" The man muttered repeatedly. "I can hear the shovels!"

Joanne attentively placed her hand on his shoulder, "excuse me-"

He whipped around, his blue eyes were extremely dilated and blazing with panic. The bald man pulled out a knife from his dark trench coat, letting out another horrible animalistic scream. Joanne jumped back.

"Stay away from me, you kraut," he roared, the knife trembling in his hands.

 _Kraut… he must've been a solider…_

Joanne had seen this behavior before countless times. She always felt a cold detachment when soldiers died, but when their minds died before their bodies is what always broke her heart. She rose her hands in front of her, showing that she was unarmed. She lowered her voice to a tone that was soft and gentle, hoping she could get through to him.

"What's your name, soldier," she asked.

Her question made him pause a moment, but that wild look of terror returned to his eyes. He took a bold step forward, swinging the knife at her. She was far enough away not to be slashed, but she started to get worried that he was too far gone. Someone in the crowd gasped, and someone else yelled in warning. Joanne had almost forgot that she wasn't in the street alone, she was so focused on the raving bald man. This wasn't the first time a soldier tried to stab her, the only difference is at Base # 5 they used scalpels and needles.

"You're not in the trenches anymore, solider. The war ended a year ago," Joanne added, her tone still soft.

"They're in the walls!"

He went for another slash, this time a little closer than before. Some men from the crowd came forward, reaching out to grab him. He whirled around toward them, his knife drawn back, ready to strike. Joanne leapt forward, grabbing his wrist, trying to control the weapon. The two men gripped his shoulders to subdue him. The clash caused all four of them to tumble to the ground. Joanne pinned his wrist down as the crazy man lay on his back, screaming louder than ever.

"Do you two have a lighter," she asked the two men who were restraining him, her voice frantic and shrill.

"What?"

"Just give me a lighter!"

Confused, one of the men reached into their coat pocket and gave her a lighter. The bald man struggled under them, trying to pry the knife free. With one free hand Joanne ignited the lighter, producing a single, small orange flame. She leaned closer to his face, bringing the lighter before his eyes. The man stopped screaming almost instantly. She moved the lighter back and forth in his field of vision, slowly so his eyes could follow it. As she held his wrist, she was taking his pulse, hoping his dangerously high heart rate would drop. His eyes were glued to the dancing flame, mystified as if he'd never seen fire before. She could feel his body relaxing under her.

"What's your name," Joanne asked again.

The man's mouth trembled wordlessly, a sound resonated at the back of his throat, but never crossed his lips. His eyes were still following the fire.

"What do I call you?"

"Danny," He answered in a meek voice that sounded faraway.

"Danny Whizz-Bang," a new voice added behind her.

She turned her head and her eyes widened in recognition. It was the high cheekbone, deep blue eyed man from the pub. Joanne tensed up, feeling once again that she was going to be interrogated. Instead the man looked concerned, his attention on Danny. The newcomer kneeled beside Joanne, as he did so the other two men instantly let go, backing away as if they feared his presence.

"Are you okay, Danny?"

Danny was still watching the fire, in a dull trance. He was completely relaxed now. Joanne was able to gently slide the handle of the knife from his grasp. Joanne flicked off the lighter, hoping his extreme paranoia wouldn't return. Danny blinked a few times, then his alert blue eyes fell on the high cheekboned man. Tears flooded his eyes as his thick, dark eyebrows drew inward. Joanne and the man helped Danny up to his feet.

"Oh, Thomas, I'm so sorry…" Danny wept, his face buried in his bloody hands. "I don't know what came over me, sometimes I'm here, but then my mind starts to wander… and then I'm not here anymore. I'm back in those Goddamn tunnels. It's like a tick in me brain…"

"Easy, Danny," Thomas soothed, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the solider.

Danny's sad eyes looked over at Joanne, "I didn't hurt you, did I?" He appeared afraid by what answer she would give.

Joanne shook her head, "no one was hurt."

Danny burst into tears, crumbled over in sobs. Thomas bent over to consult him, speaking low and inaudibly to his friend. Joanne watched them, transfixed how the man that had scared her with his seriousness was now calmly speaking to Danny in hushed tones. The crowd started to disperse, growing bored now that the action was finished. Joanne handed the man's lighter back to him; by that time Danny and Thomas straightened up.

"Remember what I told you. Go right home now, Danny," Thomas concluded.

"Aye, Tommy. Thanks…" Danny turned reluctantly on his boot heel and walked down the opposite way of the sidewalk.

Thomas turned his attention back to Joanne, and she stiffened up immediately. She thought that this was going to be just like cleaning up James' wound. She was so nervous she didn't even realize she was still holding Danny's knife.

"Katie must be right, you really are an angel," Thomas finally said, his tone carefree.

Joanne was taken aback, expecting a lecture. "No, I just have a habit of being at the right place at the right time."

Thomas nodded solemnly and cleared this throat, "how'd you know how to calm him?"

"I've treated many men like him."

Thomas pulled out a cigarette and brought up a lighter, cupping his hands around it as he lit it. He blew out a puff of smoke. "You're familiar with Flanders Blues, then."

Joanne stared at him, confused. "You mean shell shock?"

Thomas shrugged, "whatever you Americans call it."

Joanne nodded, her lips drawn in a tight line. "Well, I hope your friend will be okay." She started to walk away, but Thomas held up his hand to stop her. She felt her stomach flop unpleasantly again.

"That boy you treated the other day, I want you to go take another look at him," Thomas stated simply.

"Why me? Surely his father can bring him to a doctor," Joanne answered, perplexed.

Thomas scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous idea he ever heard.

"You really don't know who we are, do you?"

Joanne furrowed her brows, "no, should I?"

"We can't bring him to a public doctor. Since James trusts you I wanted you to check up on him," Thomas explained. Thomas sensed her reluctance. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, "this is not negotiable."

 **0000**

Thomas led Joanne to a house a few blocks over from where Danny had his breakdown. He didn't knock at the door, he just entered, swinging the door open like it was a break in. Joanne didn't climb the small steps right away, she felt like a trespasser, but Thomas told her to come on. Joanne followed him into the dim house, and was immediately greeted by the sounds of rowdy children. Thomas and Joanne rounded a tight corner and entered the kitchen. John was there, and a middle-aged woman she hadn't seen before. They were speaking seriously about something, so much that they didn't realize Thomas and Joanne had entered the room.

"I found the nurse, where's James," Thomas interjected.

John and the woman's eyes fell on her. John didn't seem livid this time, he appeared to be stressed and slightly annoyed. The woman had a gaze and air about her that made Joanne feel like she would shrink. She wrung her hands together, averting her eyes from the both of them.

"He's upstairs," John replied.

"Call him down," Thomas ordered.

John walked past him and Joanne, not even sparing her a glance. He went to the end of the stairwell and called for his son. Joanne took this opportunity to study his house. It was very untidy like a tornado had swept through, which contrasted with how well John presented himself. He came back to the kitchen, James trailing behind him.

James lit up when he saw Joanne, "you're here!"

Joanne gave him a small smile, "yes, I'm here."

John crossed his arms, leaning against the wall of the kitchen. "Well, have a look, then," he clipped impatiently at Joanne.

Joanne led James to the wooden kitchen table, feeling the weight of Thomas, John, and the woman's eyes at the back of her neck. She lifted James up and sat him down. She looked down at his shin, glad to see that a different bandage was wrapped around his leg. James watched her expectedly, eager to see if his leg was healed.

"Your bandage was changed often," Joanne asked James to confirm.

"Yes! Aunt Polly changed it every two days like you said," James responded.

"Let's take a look," Joanne said as she started to unwrap the gauze. She gently peeled back the bandage that held the cloth against his shin. James gritted his teeth in discomfort, but said nothing. The cut was now a dark red and pink slit less than an inch in width, but longer traveling down. The skin around the wound was red and damp with a yellow bruise forming underneath the cut. Joanne held the cloth up to her nose.

"What are you doing," John demanded, as if she was insane.

"Smelling for infection. If the scent is south of cheese, that means it's infected. But it looks fine to me," Joanne replied, keeping her tone even.

James stared down at his leg. "Why is it wet?"

"That's plasma, it means your cut is healing," Joanne answered with a smile. "You can keep the bandage off of the cut now so it can be aired out. Just wash it with warm water and it'll be fine."

James appeared relieved by the news, glancing over happily at John. He hopped off the table. "I'm better! You fixed me too, Aunt Polly!"

The woman smiled, "of course you are."

John ruffled James' hair, "now go upstairs and keep an eye on your sister and brothers. The adults need to talk."

James dashed out of the kitchen excitedly, enjoying the lack of restriction the gauze had given him. Joanne had watched him, feeling satisfied that they had listened to her advice. If the wound would've gotten infected, then the situation would become dire.

"Why do you look down, John? This is good news, eh," Thomas interjected.

John ran a hand through his well-groomed hair, still visibly stressed. "I had no idea what to do with him."

"It was only a cut, not that bad. You had worse when you were younger," Polly dismissed with a wave of her hand.

John shook his head, "you're the only reason it healed, Pol. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I _still_ have no idea what the fuck I'm doing."

"John-" Polly began.

"My kids run around like wild animals, Pol! When I'm helping with the family business I can't keep an eye on them at the same time. James got hurt this time, but what if it's Katie next time? Or Peter, or Will? Martha would've known what to do, but I have no damn idea," he replied earnestly.

Joanne stood at the entrance of the kitchen awkwardly. This was a private conversation, it felt wrong for her to listen to it. John continued to ramble about his struggle of raising four children by himself while Thomas and Polly listened and offered their opinions.

"This isn't a conversation you should be having in front of a stranger," Joanne spoke up. The three of them looked back at her, and once again she felt like prey. "This is none of my business; I'll be leaving now. I'm glad James is okay," she added as she started to back away from the kitchen.

"Thank you," John said before she left.


	4. A Proposition

**Hello, everyone! Sorry for the delay, I had to focus on college and I've been sick the past few days. Thank you so much for all the feedback, I appreciate it so much! Thank you for being patient, I hope you all enjoy xoxo  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: A Proposition**

Mary gave her head a slight shake, gazing at herself in the mirror as she spun the skirt tails of her dress. Her short bob-cut brunette hair, large doe eyes, and taste in flapper dresses made Joanne almost forget she was a nurse. She had grown so accustomed to seeing her friend in the white nurse's uniform that she had forgotten that Mary had a taste for fashion, and wore garments outside the hospital. Mary added lipstick to her cupid-shaped lips, concealing all her wear from hours of hospital work.

Try as she might, Joanne couldn't hide her deep purple bags under her eyes. Her green eyes appeared dull and flat as she watched Mary with slight admiration. Mary was great at preserving her femininity even after everything she had endured in France. After the war Joanne gradually lost interest in anything to do with make-up or fashion because she had learned to live without it. It wasn't a necessity. Now as Joanne tried to fasten her wild hair into a high Edwardian pompadour bun, strands of her unruly curly hair broke free and hung down. She put a headband on her hair, having to really push down on the pouf of her hair. It helped contain the madness up there. Joanne had observed herself in the mirror, looking less extraordinary, but content with her simplistic appearance. Her long sleeved, white, button up blouse and long olive green Simpsons skirt was enough for her to be satisfied.

"Don't look so down," Mary chimed as she put in her earrings, "we haven't had a night out since we moved to this dreadful place."

"This 'dreadful place' was your idea," Joanne retorted playfully.

Mary smirked confidently and headed toward the door of their flat, Joanne watched her, following behind.

"You never told me where we were going," Joanne added.

"It's a surprise! You'll see when we get there!"

 **0000**

The moment of unpleasant anxiety Joanne experienced when she read the name of the pub nearly made her lose her footing. She stared reluctantly up at the bold sign which read: THE GARRISON overhead. Mary was excited, oblivious to her friend's weariness. Joanne had never told Mary about her two encounters with the strange Thomas and John, and their family. She hid it well, not wanting to raise alarm and scare Mary, but now she feared Mary would be able to read her like a book (which wasn't unusual).

"What's wrong," Mary questioned, giving Joanne's arm a tug.

"It's just… I haven't done anything like this since before the war," Joanne replied meekly.

"All the more reason to start."

Mary led Joanne in. She could hear boisterous singing from outside the pub. Joanne felt somewhat relieved that the pub was crowded, she felt less exposed. A large man sang jollily as he stood on top of a table, holding a large glass of some dark ale. He slung the cup around, spilling droplets of it. The other patrons of the bar stomped and clapped in an unorthodox beat; some men and women danced in a drunken frenzy with no rhythm.

Mary laughed, leading Joanne to the bar. Joanne recognized Grace from behind the bar, but she was too preoccupied listening to the man singing to notice her. Once again, Joanne felt anxious. Grace knew The Family, which means she could tell them the weird redhead girl was back, or they could be here. Mary said something about gin and music, but the pub was so loud Joanne didn't hear. The two women sat on two of the free bar stools, squishing in between people.

The man continued to belt-out an Irish song:

 _"A buidhean nach fann d'fuil Ghaoidheal is Gall_

 _Sinn breacadh lae na saoirse,_

 _Tá sgéimhle 's sgannradh í gcroidhthibh namhad,_

 _Roimh ranngaibh laochra ár dtíre;_

 _Ár dteinte is tréith gan spréach anois,_

 _Sin luinne ghlé san spéir anoir,_

 _'S an bíodhbha i raon na bpiléar agaibh:_

 _Seo libh, canaidh amhrán na bhFiann."_

"I don't know what he was singing, but it was great," Mary exalted.

The crowd cheered as the man finished his foreign song. He nearly stumbled off the table, but others caught him and led him down, clapping him on the back. Joanne spun around on her bar stool, seeing now that Grace was looking at her. The two women had a mute moment of recognition as Mary applauded the singer. Mary nudged Joanne, tearing her attention away from the knowing barmaid.

"Is there singing here often," Mary asked Grace.

"Only on Saturdays."

Mary turned eagerly to Joanne. "We should get up there and sing!"

Joanne scoffed, "I haven't even had a drink yet."

"Would you like anything to drink," Grace asked.

"I'll have a gin and tonic," Mary answered, still beaming.

"And you," Grace glanced over at Joanne, her eyes searching her.

"Whiskey," Joanne said with a tight smile. As Grace poured her drink and slid it to her, Joanne found herself just staring at it like she did when she first came here. This sinking feeling of déjà vu made her stomach turn.

Some of the patrons of the bar started calling Grace up to sing. She smiled and chuckled bashfully, but they were persistent enough for her to go up to the table. She stood on top of the table, still laughing as people clapped at her bravery. Mary clapped along with them, as Joanne studied the mysterious Grace. There was something almost _hidden_ about her that she couldn't put her finger on. She took a tentative sip of her whiskey, grimacing slightly at the burn it gave her as she swallowed it.

"What should I sing," Grace asked the rambunctious crowd.

A door from a hidden seating entrance opened from Joanne's left. "Sing Gypsy Rover!"

Joanne turned to see Arthur, raising his glass with a drunken smile on his face. Thomas and John emerged from behind him. Joanne immediately looked away and went back to concentrating on her drink. Her suspicions were correct.

"Of all the songs-" John began.

"Oi, why not give 'ttention to our heritage," he slurred with a careless shrug.

Grace looked at Thomas for affirmation as the bar practically held their breath in waiting. Joanne didn't understand why this Thomas man had such authority and influence over these people. He said to Joanne: 'You really don't know who we are do you?' that day, but she never understood what he meant.

"If you can do the song justice, eh," Thomas answered, with a small smile.

Grace returned his smile, and Joanne swore she blushed. Closing her eyes as she prepared to sing. Mary stood up from her bar stool, her gin already gone. She wanted to get up to dance and get ready to sing next, but Joanne told her she had to finish her whiskey. Joanne wanted to stand as still as possible so The Family wouldn't notice her.

 _"The gypsy rover came over the hill_

 _Down through the valley so shady,_

 _He whistled and he sang 'til the greenwoods rang,_

 _And he won the heart of a lady."_

The crowd roared their approval, Arthur included. Grace had a nice voice, even though it was being mostly drowned out by everyone else's noise. Joanne kept her back to the crowd, continuing to sip her whiskey. The seats by her had long since been abandoned, the patrons leaving to dance and sing themselves. Now she felt the presence of two people sitting on either side of her; she didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Back again, eh?"

Thomas lit a cigarette to her right, as John watched Grace sing to her left, half-interested. She felt stuck in between the two men, but she knew their suspicions of her were warranted. She kept appearing in places where they were.

"I swear I'm not doing this on purpose," Joanne said.

"Right place at the right time, like you said."

Grace and the crowd began to sing the chorus:

 _"Ah-de-do, ah-de-do-da-day,_

 _Ah-de-do, ah-de-da-ay_

 _He whistled and he sang 'til the greenwoods rang,_

 _And he won the heart of a lady."_

"So what brings you to The Garrison," John asked.

Joanne had never seen him so relaxed, mainly because the last two accounts he was mad at her or going off about something. Joanne thought he looked pleasant when he was calm, his nice cherub face appeared almost angelic with youth. His blue eyes and groomed hair complimented each other nicely. He appeared so much less intense than his two older brothers, less weathered somehow.

"My friend, Mary brought me here," Joanne pointed to Mary. She was standing by some fellow patrons, singing and swaying in rhythm.

"Ah," Thomas answered, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Not here to check up on John's children, or a veteran friend of mine this time?"

Joanne was unsure how to answer. It surprised her to see a slight smirk on Thomas' lips, his eyes pinned on Grace. She noted how he looked at Grace, like she was the most fascinating human in the room. Could part of that be admiration? She didn't know. She also wasn't sure if this was his sense of humor, or if he was being serious and preoccupied at the same time.

"Relax, Nurse Joanne, it's a joke," he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "John wanted to talk to you, anyway."

John shot his brother a look, appeared almost embarrassed as Joanne looked to him curiously.

 _"She left her father's castle gates_

 _She left her own fine lover_

 _She left her servants and her state_

 _To follow the gypsy rover."_

"Oi, Tommy I said _maybe-_ " John started.

His older brother waved him off, "it's better than your other idea."

John appeared cross but didn't counter Thomas' words. Joanne glanced back and forth between the two, feeling lost. She took another cautious drink of her whiskey, trying to fill the silence with alcohol. Before anyone could speak Arthur came stumbling over, grinning at his brothers.

"Aye, you're that girl, damn you look tired" Arthur pointed out, "you like horses?"

"Arthur," Thomas warned, placing a hand on his forehead like he was getting a headache.

"I do, actually. My family has a farm full of them back home," Joanne replied.

"That so? We've been doin' work with the bookies at the race tracks-"

"Go sing your song, Arthur," Thomas got up and led his brother away. Arthur sang the chorus of the song gleefully, unaware of his younger brother's irritation.

 _Bookies at the race tracks? Is that what this family does,_ Joanne thought, still trying to figure them all out.

"James and Katie talk about you all the time," John interjected from beside her, "you left quite 'n impression on them."

"Really? They're great kids," Joanne responded awkwardly.

John turned around toward the bar and leaned his elbows on it. He seemed deep in thought and anxious to speak. Joanne watched him, wondering if she should add more to her comment or leave it be. She always felt like she was walking on egg shells whenever she encountered The Family.

"My children need someone to look after 'em. I can't be there all the time, and with their mother gone… they need a woman's influence in their lives. They need someone they can trust while I'm workin'," he paused, thinking how he should phrase his words. "They need a mother, and I'm working on that, but in the meantime they need a caretaker."

Joanne stared at him, not knowing what to say. He went from completely distrusting her to now asking for her help to watch over his children? The man was practically pouring out his heart to her in desperation.

"I know you're a nurse so you can't be there all the time. I just need someone to make sure they stay out of trouble when you can, someone who can make sure they make it to and from school, and watch the youngest."

"I…" Joanne stammered, aghast.

John sighed, "I know this is sudden. I was set on just findin' them a mum, I even proposed to someone and she agreed, but Tommy, Arthur, and Polly think it's bloody insane. Now I don' know what to do or who to listen to. I'm stuck, but I don' want my kids to be left alone anymore."

"You proposed to someone and they don't approve? Why," Joanne questioned, baffled by this. He was doing this for his children, and probably because he was lonely and trying to fill a void that his late wife left behind.

John shook his head, unwilling to discuss that topic further. Joanne let him drop it without prying. "I will make it worth your while, just consider it please."

Joanne bit her lip in contemplation. She couldn't believe it, but she actually pitied him. It wasn't easy for him to ask for help. John waited for an answer, his eyes begging her for an answer. How could she say no to a face like that?

"Sure, I'll need more details later on and I'll have to let Mary know," Joanne agreed.

John was relieved, "thank you."

"Joanne! Come up here!"

Joanne turned her attention to the rest of the bar. She saw Mary standing on top of the table, waving her over to join her. Joanne started to shake her head no in rejection, but the rest of the bar started to urge her on. She had just made a deal with the Shelby family, not that she was aware what that meant yet, but she knew it was a big deal for some reason. Mary continued to wave her up frantically, beckoning her.

Joanne took a long swig of her whiskey, shaking her head shyly at the crowd. "Fine, I'm coming."

The crowd applauded loudly as Joanne walked across The Garrison and climbed onto the table. She already felt like a giant so standing on top of the table didn't help. The sea of people and their attention made Joanne's head spin, but she felt comforted with Mary by her side. Her eyes landed on John's; he was watching her curiously, his arm propped up on the bar next to her discarded whiskey. Mary introduced them and told the restless crowd that they would be singing something from their homeland across the pond. Now she definitely had their attention, but Joanne was aware that this meant no one would know the song to sing along. They would be alone vocalizing up there.

Joanne already knew what song Mary wanted to sing, one that she sang often when they were treating soldiers in France. Mary loved to sing, it helped her cope, and Joanne also found it therapeutic. They were told they had nice voices, but the crowd before them would be the ultimate judge of that. Joanne prepared herself for the upbeat Stephen Foster song, composing herself among the scrutiny. She wondered what on Earth she had gotten herself into, both as she agreed to sing and that she agreed to take care of John Shelby's children.

 _"We live in hard and stirring times,_

 _Too sad for mirth, too rough for rhymes;_

 _For songs of peace have lost their chimes,_

 _And that's what's the matter!_

 _The men we held as brothers true_

 _Have turned into a rebel crew;_

 _So now we have to put them thro',_

 _And that's what's the matter!_

 _That's what's the matter,_

 _The rebels have to scatter;_

 _We'll make them flee, by land and sea,_

 _And that's what's the matter!"_


	5. Careless Mistakes

**I am TERRIBLE for not updating in months! I am so sorry for the wait! I've had horrible writer's block and haven't been able to write something I actually like in a long while. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with the fic and continues to read and leave reviews - you all inspire me so much to keep going. Just a heads up, I don't really like how things turned out in Peaky Blinders, so I won't be following the canon story completely. Enjoy! xoxo**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Careless Mistakes**

Joanne sat in John's dim living room, her head down and her hand drawn over her face in exhaustion. Between her shifts at the hospital and caring for John's children, she had nearly no sleep. William, John's eldest child, told her she looked like "a tired old hag," which got him sent to his room by Aunt Polly. But he was right, Joanne stared at herself in the mirror and thought she looked much older than she really was.

William had the deep, beautiful blue eyes that the Shelby family were blessed with, and lighter brown hair that almost appeared blonde. He watched Joanne with mistrust whenever she was around, always suspicious by her growing presence. She didn't blame the child, he was feeling threatened that his late mother was going to be replaced in memory, and the Shelbys seem to have deep-rooted trust issues, anyway.

James and Katie were their same, cheery selves. Joanne braided Katie's previously unkempt hair whenever she came over. She monitored James as he played outside, making sure he didn't end up playing on a fire escape again. He would often call over to her, wanting her to watch him do something athletic ( _attempted_ athletic was a better term, children always thought they were strong and impressive with whatever they come up with). Peter, the youngest, was only two. The poor thing was delayed because of a lack of maternal guidance, so the child could only really walk, and struggled with speech or anything else. When Joanne would walk the older children to school, she'd hold Peter and take him back home to start her chores.

John never asked her to tidy up his house when he hired her as a caretaker, but Joanne couldn't stand the horrible clutter his family was living in. She pulled open the blinds, waving away the dust that danced annoyingly in the air. The house was so dim with its dark walls and dark furniture, that finding a reliable natural light source was difficult. She cleaned the kitchen, organized clothes and shelves, swept, and dusted. The only room she never enters was John's – she didn't feel comfortable going into his room without permission. The Family was very secretive, and Joanne had no desire to snoop.

The sound of James yelling outside startled Joanne from her lethargic rest. His yells weren't in agony, but in playfulness. She shook her head and went outside, feeling guilty that she had rested inside for a moment. She went outside, studying the pathetic fenced in alleyway that was John's backyard. There was a pot of dying shrubs beside the door that was once planted to give the grey slab of pavement some color, but that idea didn't last long. Joanne leaned against the doorway, watching James chase some of the neighborhood children around, wishing William would come down from his room and join in. He was always such a recluse whenever Joanne came over. Peter had been put down for his nap, so it was just James and Katie playing outside. Katie was by a pile of discarded crates, her back toward everyone else.

Joanne approached the little girl, smiling slightly at the sight of Katie paying such intent attention to something. The young girl had such focus for a four-year-old.

"What you got th-" Joanne's words faded from her lips.

Katie was fumbling with a revolver. She was fascinated by the gleaming silver and heaviness of the weapon, running her hands along the cylinder and hammer. Katie turned the gun in her hands, looking down directly into the snub-nosed barrel; pointed dead-center at her little, rounded face.

"Jesus Christ," the Lord's name escaped Joanne's lips before she could stop it.

Katie heard her, and turned around and looked up at Joanne with blissful innocence. Joanne saw Katie's small fingers close to the trigger. Her breath hitched in her throat, she reached out, and gripped Katie's wrist, making her stop. Joanne forced herself to put on a calm face so Katie wouldn't get scared.

"Katie, where'd you find this," Joanne asked, her voice sugary-sweet. Joanne gently pried Katie's fingers off the gun, and took the weapon from her. By the weight, Joanne knew it was loaded. Her breath hitched again.

"I found it," Katie answered with a careless shrug. She pointed over by the back door leading into her house. "It was right there by the dead plant."

Joanne followed her finger, her stomach dropping down to her knees as if it was made of lead. A fully-loaded weapon was left right outside where children could reach it? Joanne almost didn't believe Katie, but she had no reason to lie. The girl didn't seem to understand the severity of what she was just holding.

"Just lying there on the ground?"

"Aye," Katie answered simply, her face beaming with her usual smile.

Joanne felt her mood darken. Katie must've seen the expression on her face, because she suddenly flinched back. Angry was not even _close_ to how Joanne felt right now. Joanne turned on her heel and headed back for the house, calling James and Katie to follow her. The children followed behind, their paces almost sheepish in fear that they've done something wrong.

"Miss Jo, what's wrong," James asked, studying the furious nurse. James looked down at what Joanne was holding, his face lit up with recognition. "Oi, that's dad's!"

Joanne froze. She glanced at the children in horrid disbelief. Joanne looked down at the revolver. The Shelby family carried around guns? They were a shady and intimidating bunch, so she thought it was silly that this would come as a shock to her. Joanne swallowed hard, composing herself in front of the confused kids.

"Can you tell me where your dad is right now?"

 **0000**

Joanne was told directions to come to a building, one she was standing outside of now. It didn't look extraordinary, but James had sworn this is where John worked. Joanne opened the door, still fuming and ready for a fight. The fiery redhead was greeted by a child of about eleven sitting by a fireplace, with the same undercut as the Shelby family. He seemed startled by her sudden entrance.

"I'm looking for John Shelby," Joanne stated.

The child gave her a perplexed look, remaining by the fireplace. This small room looked like an entrance to a house, but this is where James had told her to go. She didn't doubt the five-year-old when he told her, but now she was starting to wonder…

"I'm sorry, mam…" the boy started, unsure how to continue.

The door opened behind Joanne. A young and severely pregnant woman entered the building. Her dark bobbed hair and blazing blue eyes made Joanne instantly suspect her to be a Shelby. The woman glanced at the boy, then back at Joanne, her eyes narrowing on the nurse dangerously.

"Who in bloody hell are you," the newcomer demanded, crossing her arms.

"I could ask you the same question," Joanne challenged, in no mood to be interrupted.

"Ada, this woman was asking after John," the boy piped up.

Ada fixed her eyes back on Joanne, working her jaw in agitation. "What do you want with my brother," she demanded.

"I'm the caretaker of his children," Joanne replied.

The boy suddenly gasped, "you're Joanne?"

Ada looked aghast, "Finn, you know this woman?"

"I know of her, John and Polly talk about her all the time," Finn glanced back at Joanne. "Is everything alright at John's?"

"Sort of, I just really need to speak with him."

"Where are his kids," Ada asked (although it sounded like another demand).

"Back home. I told them to lock the doors and not leave, I told them I wouldn't take long," Joanne was beginning to grow very impatient.

Finn hopped off his chair, "I can get him, but you can't see…"

"Can't see what," Joanne questioned, confused.

"Jus' follow me outside," Ada clipped, already heading back out. "Someone's gotta make sure you're not up to no good."

Joanne followed Ada reluctantly, but didn't want to stall her anticipated heated meeting with John any longer. The two waited in silence for a minute, neither sparing a glance at each other. She was becoming increasingly irritated with the strange, secret nature the Shelby family kept. Before too long Finn opened the door and beckoned the two women back in.

John and Polly were both by the fireplace, standing behind the large wooden table. Joanne had thought they appeared out of thin air, but seeing John made all her fury come rushing back. John appeared immaculately groomed, as usual, and confused and a little irritated as to why he was summoned unexpectedly. He noticed the crossed look on Joanne's face.

"What is it?"

"Do you want to see what I found Katie playing with today," Joanne asked, though her tone wasn't going to dare let him answer. She reached into her overcoat and pulled out the revolver. She saw everyone in the room tense up at the sight of the gun. Joanne pulled out the locking pin and removed the cylinder, dumping the bullets on the table.

"Oh, dear Christ," Polly exclaimed, bringing her hand to her forehead like she was getting a headache. Polly shot John a nasty look, the color raising in her high cheeks.

John stared at the gun and bullets scattered around the table, agape, and looked back up at Joanne. Her arms were crossed, waiting for an explanation.

"Where the fuck did she get this," John started, his voice low but deadly.

"You tell me! She found it outside your house, by some dead shrubs," Joanne snapped, surprised by her bravery to talk to the Shelby family like this, but she was too heated to stop. "She had the gun pointed right at her face, John, her fingers on the trigger!"

"Ada, take Finn outside for a moment," Polly ordered, one hand on her hip, her eyes glaring at her nephew. Ada ushered Finn out quickly without hesitation. "What in God's name were you thinking, John?! First you leave a Webley lying around and Finn nearly blows his bloody brains out, and now you did it again and your _daughter_ almost shot herself!"

Before Joanne could react, Polly shot up her hand as quickly as a serpent, and struck John with the open palm of her hand, right on his cheek. Shocked, Joanne gasped as John stumbled slightly, looking dazed then livid. Joanne felt a pang of guilt bringing Polly's wrath upon John, but the older woman was right, he had almost been responsible for the deaths of two children because of carelessness.

"Are you fuckin' cracked, Pol," John roared, grabbing the side of his face. "Why do you think I asked Joanne for help in the first place?"

Joanne's guilt grew. John was looking at her, but he didn't appear angry. Riled up, yes, but there was something else in his eyes, too. Joanne averted her glance, staring down at her scuffed up nurse's shoes.

"Well you're damned lucky Joanne was there," Polly spat before storming out.

After a moment of rubbing his newly reddened face, John picked up his revolver and started to put the cylinder back. Joanne watched him, feeling the tensing growing with every crushing second.

"John…"

"Don' worry 'bout it," he replied, his tone surprisingly soft.

"I didn't mean for it-"

John shook his head, clicking the cylinder back into place. He picked up the bullets one by one and reloaded the gun. Joanne knew she had completely overstepped her bounds, but the thought of Katie dying by such a preventable death had enraged her. Learning that this wasn't John's first offense had also made her blood boil, but seeing him now in this little room, humiliated and alone, she felt pity.

Joanne shuffled her feet anxiously, "I better go return and check on your children." She turned to leave, but John stopped her.

"Thank you for stopping Kate," John began, snapping the cylinder back with a click into the revolver, then holstering it under his overcoat. He rounded the table, getting close to Joanne, and once again she felt that old familiar Shelby intimidation return. "But don' you _ever_ come in here again an' make an arse out of me in front of my family."

She stood at his eye level, but that didn't make his warning and glare any less effective. Joanne nodded nervously, her throat growing dry and thick. John grabbed her cheeks with his thumb and pointer finger, putting pressure on his face and forcing her to hold his gaze. She tried to flinch back, but he held her there.

"You're a good nurse, Joanne, and you do a good job watchin' me kids. But you don' know anythin' 'bout the Shelby family, or are you welcome into it," John added, releasing Joanne's face.

Feeling deflated and panicked Joanne dashed out of the building as fast as she could, not looking back. As she jogged down the gloomy streets of Birmingham, her mind began to race with the possibility that she had made a mistake taking this job. She feared she had gotten herself into something she had no hope to crawl out of.


	6. Opioids

**Hello, everyone! I'm glad I was able to update faster than I expected! Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read and review, it means so much to me! Enjoy xoxo  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Opioids**

"Will you stay with me?"

Joanne stared down at her patient, observing him grimly. The man had a slash across his face, going through both eyes, leaving him blinded. He couldn't see her, but he sensed the nurse's presence. He had a deep wound that had punctured his liver and stomach, and was bleeding out internally at an alarming rate. The doctor had already delivered the news to the man, saying he was sorry that there was nothing more he could do. He had arrived at the hospital too late. The man was weakening by the second, barely able to move as he lay on the hospital gurney. His voice was breathy and fading, but he continued to speak in a quiet desperation.

"Please… I-I don't want to die alone…"

Joanne had bowed her head, closing her eyes to shield herself from the sight of him. She was used to watching men die, but this was a time of peace. He was brought to the hospital, raving that he had been attacked at some sort of fair, and started to speak a language Joanne was unfamiliar with.

She sat on the side of his gurney, gently taking one of his limp hands. "Of course I will," she replied.

There was a moment of silence before the blind man attempted to speak again. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his breathing slowing down drastically.

"I'm sorry?"

"It was… all… his… that… bloody…" he panted, the sentence fading on his pale lips. "I _amriya… bi-lacho…_ that _familia."_

Joanne had no idea what he was saying, but kept silent to let him vent before his soul departed. She continued to hold his hand, feeling the strength in it begin to wither.

"They come to our… _kumpania… mira kumpania…_ I am _muller'd…_ fear… that rogue _schav…"_ The man's breathing became so shallow that Joanne had though he had already passed, but with another weak intake he rambled on: "damn them… Shelbys…"

Joanne felt her blood freeze in her veins, she gripped the man's hand tightly, "Did you say Shelbys?"

"Aye… now _méripen…"_

The man breathed his final breath then he was gone. His hand went limp as his muscles completely relaxed one last time. Joanne could only stare at the dead patient, aghast at his final words.

The Shelby family had killed this man.

 **0000**

Joanne had called out ill the next day, and didn't bother going to John's house. She laid in bed, contemplating. Losing a patient on the table had always left her a little emptier inside, but that man's last words had been nothing short of haunting. She didn't doubt why people feared that family now, if they could commit atrocities such as she witnessed today, then she no longer wanted to be around them. With a heavy groan, Joanne pulled the bed covers over her head, blocking out the unwanted rays of sunshine that were peering through her window. As she attempted to shield herself from the light, a heavy knock erupted from the front door. The knocks continued, loud and furious, followed by a masculine voice but it was muffled from where Joanne lay. The sound of cracking wood as the door hinge snapped and broke made Joanne spring up from her bed.

"Police!"

"Mary," Joanne shouted, dashing out of her tiny bedroom to see the commotion.

"What are you doing, this is unjust," Mary yelled as cops flooded into their flat, throwing things around like they were searching a prison cell. "What's going on," Mary demanded, following the cops as they wrecked the nurses house.

A tall man in a long, dark trench-coat entered, wearing a rounded cap, and had a thick moustache. There was an unpleasant look in his eyes, and his smile was almost sinister.

"Mary Thornton," a thick Irish accent came from the tall man.

"What?"

The man's beady eyes flitted over toward Joanne, she felt her skin crawl.

"Joanne Berkley?"

Joanne didn't respond, she kept her arms crossed in silent defiance. The cops stopped their rowdy searching, leaving their apartment in total disarray. They waited for the tall man to give orders. The Irish man took out two files from his trench-coat, holding them up to show the women.

"I've got your files, here. Says you both were nurses with the American Red Cross," he casually flipped through the paper files. "I wonder why a couple of Yanks would find themselves all the way in Birmingham of all places."

"Why are you even here," Joanne questioned, wanting him to get to the point. They weren't criminals, she didn't understand why they were being targeted, of all the illegal activity that goes on in Birmingham, raiding the home of two nurses seemed ridiculous.

The Irish man's terrible grin returned. "I noticed you hangin' around with them Peaky Blinders." He pointed at Joanne, smirking slightly. "I went and asked around, and found out some interesting information."

Joanne had no idea what he was talking about. She had never heard of the Peaky Blinders before.

His dark eyes fell on Mary. "Sending out a few telegrams to America helped me understand. You were fleeing from something." The Irish man opened the file again and read aloud: "Nurse Mary Thornton was expected of overdosing her patients with morphine while serving her time in Base Hospital # 5 in Brest, France. The patients under Ms. Thornton's care suffered symptoms that included: blueish skin, nausea, vomiting, loss of consciousness, coma – all symptoms worsened and caused fatalities. Stock of morphine capsules was checked. Investigation noted missing syrettes."

Joanne looked at Mary, unable to believe what she was hearing, but the expression on Mary's face made her heart sink. Mary's cupid lips were drawn in a tight line, her large eyes were fixed on the Irish man. She looked absolutely livid, but also extremely fearful. Joanne could see her forehead breaking out with beads of sweat.

"Mary…" Joanne started, her voice nearly too constricted to speak.

"Care to refute, Ms. Thornton," the Irish man asked, grinning smugly at the nurse. "The charges against you are outstanding. Did you really think you could outrun the law?"

Mary closed her eyes, averting his gaze in shame. Joanne started to shake her head in disbelief. What he was saying could not be true, it just _couldn't._ Mary was an excellent nurse, she would never purposely harm the soldiers they treated, or any of her patients.

"They asked me to end their suffering…" Mary croaked, unable to look at anyone. "Some of their injuries were just too great…"

"Mary, no… you didn't..." Joanne replied meekly.

"Don't any of you understand?! I did the right thing," Mary suddenly erupted, tears pricking her eyes. She stared wildly at her audience, almost daring them to judge her. "They were dying, suffering! The pain those men were in was worse than hell could inflict! They ASKED me to end their lives, I granted their wishes! It was humane! Like falling asleep… no one noticed if I took a little extra morphine from the crates…"

"We were only allowed to give three grams of morphine a day because of the potency..." Joanne's sentence fell short, she couldn't bring herself to finish. Part of her understood Mary's intentions, she wanted to let those poor men be at peace.

"Mary Thornton, you're under arrest for murder," the Irish man stated. He nodded at the cops surrounding the flat as a signal. They grabbed Mary's thin arms, and started to force her toward the door.

"Wait," Joanne shouted, but they rushed out the door.

"No! Stop! You can't do this! NO!"

Mary began to fight against the cops, pulling away and attempting to twist free. She screamed as the cops rushed toward her, subduing the woman before she broke free. They started to cause a scene in the street, grabbing the attention of nearby civilians. One of the cops whipped out a baton, and struck Mary on the back, between her shoulder blades. She fell to her knees, crying out in pain.

"MARY!"

Joanne sprung toward the cops, grabbing one around the neck, prying him away from her injured friend. The cop swung around, breaking Joanne's grip from his throat. He pushed her back harshly. She went for him again, this time she was pulled back by another cop who threw her to the ground. Joanne was so preoccupied trying to struggle against the cops, she didn't see a certain, familiar vehicle pull up close by.

"Stop with this nonsense, put her out," the Irish man ordered, waving his hand dismissively.

"Inspector Campbell, are you sure," one of the cops asked, uneasily.

Campbell glared at the cop, as if he was irritated that the cop would even ask such a foolish question. As Mary tried to stand up, the cop with the baton brought it down on the back of her head. Mary fell straight down to the pavement, face first and motionless. Joanne let out an animalistic scream of anger and anguish, jumping to her feet as she charged at the skirmish of cops once again. Two pairs of arms suddenly encircled around her, holding her back. She started flailing around to get free, squirming and kicking like a child throwing a tantrum.

"Jo, calm down, Jo!"

The voice that came from behind her she knew immediately: it was John Shelby. She didn't stop struggling to reach Mary. Someone else was speaking to her, she recognized the voice as Thomas Shelby's. The two brothers held onto her firmly as the cops picked up her unconscious friend, and hauled her away.

"NO! MARY! GIVE HER BACK, YOU BASTARDS! YOU HURT HER! NO! MARY!"

Inspector Campbell glanced back at them, his smug grin even more triumphant than ever. "Don't think you're off the hook just yet, Ms. Berkley. I'll find out what you and the Peaky Blinders are up to," Campbell's eyes landed on Thomas'. "Mark my words, Shelby." With that final threat, the cynical Irish inspector was gone, following his band of cops.

Joanne continued to shriek like a ballistic, dying animal. She collapsed to her knees, bringing down the Shelby brothers with her. She broke down into sobs, unable to get control of herself. Polly came rushing over, leaving Arthur by the family automobile.

"Thomas, she's going mad, what do we do," John asked, still holding onto Joanne. He kept his arm around her waist, holding her up from the pavement.

"We need to get her out of the street," Polly said, her eyes staring at all the civilians, still gawking at the commotion. "Let's take her to the den and calm her down, then we can ask questions."

Thomas hesitated a moment. "Right," he agreed.

 **0000**

Joanne sat at one of the wooden tables in the Shelby Brothers Limited gambling den. This was her first time seeing the hidden room before, the one that Finn and Ada hadn't let her see. She rubbed her swollen eyes, still breathing unevenly from crying. Scudboat, a burly man with an earring, brought her a cup of tea. She mumbled a thank you as he left. She felt like she was in the middle of an interrogation, so she kept her mouth shut.

"Joanne, I want you to tell us what happened," Thomas said.

Joanne's puffy eyes looked tiredly at him, but she didn't speak.

"You left quite upset two days ago, and we haven't heard word sense," Thomas glanced over at John, his tone accusatory. John rubbed the back of his neck guiltily.

"We were on our way to your flat to talk to you, and instead of seeing just you, we see Campbell, cops, and your friend being arrested and beaten," Thomas continued.

Joanne still didn't speak up, she felt afraid. She hadn't forgotten what her last patient had told her before he died, and about what that Campbell man had said. 'Peaky Blinders.' Were the Shelbys the Peaky Blinders? She didn't want to ask because she as afraid of the answer. A few hours before her life had been somewhat normal: she had a respectable job as a nurse at a hospital, Mary was her friend and hadn't been morally ambiguous to her knowledge, and the police weren't interested in them. Polly sat beside Joanne, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Joanne nearly flinched, not used to any sort of affection from this family.

"John was going to apologize to you for yelling at you, weren't you John," Polly looked over at John, who averted his eyes away. "He still wants you to care for the children. But what we saw today… Campbell breaking down your door is not what we expected."

"Are you a communist, or a bloody Fenian," Arthur interjected.

"Arthur, shut up," Polly clipped.

Joanne took a long, rattling breath, finally summoned enough strength to speak up. "How can I trust you?"

"What," Polly questioned.

"At the hospital, I had a patient who had been slashed with some sort of knife and blinded, and had been stabbed in the abdomen. He was rambling in a different dialect, and damned your family…" Joanne stared at the four Shelby members standing before her. "That man, your family killed him."

"That must've been one of the Lees," Thomas sighed, "our families have been in a war. Those gypsies have been stealing money from an _associate_ of mine. It's just business."

Joanne wasn't convinced, but she didn't add to it. Murder didn't seem justified to her by any means, but learning hearing about what Mary had done, she didn't think she could argue her point any longer.

"My friend," Joanne started. She became overcome by emotion again, tears welling in her eyes. "She was all I had…" Joanne buried her face in her hands, muffling her sobs. She felt Polly's hands gingerly grip both of her shoulders, trying to soothe her.

"That's enough for one day, c'mon, up you go," Polly guided the emotionally distressed nurse to her feet. "You need some rest."

"Mary was the owner of our apartment. I'm sure since her arrest we're evicted. I have nowhere to go," Joanne mumbled in between shaky breaths.

"Don't fret, everything will be sorted out in the morning," Polly replied, glancing back at the brothers, casting them a look that Joanne didn't catch.

 **0000**

Polly poured for heated water into the small metal tub Joanne sat in. The steam wafted up toward the ceiling; the warm water felt wonderful on Joanne's skin. She didn't realize how worn and tense she was until Polly convinced her to clean up to help her calm down. She hugged her knees, her long hair cascading around her like a red blanket. Joanne would have been suspicious by the Shelby's sudden generosity, but she was far too exhausted to put up anymore fight.

"There, don't you feel better," Polly asked.

Joanne's heavy lidded eyes glanced at her through wet strands of her hair. "Yes… thank you…"

"After you're finished here, I've laid out some clean clothes for you."

"Why… why are you being so nice to me," Joanne finally questioned.

Polly studied her a moment, her sharp eyes analyzing every inch of her. Joanne suddenly felt very exposed, not because of her nudity, but because she felt Polly's eyes could stare through her and reveal her thoughts.

"It's the least we can do, you have taken good care of John's children. They are very fond of you, you know. And after John's behavior, you deserve a proper apology." Polly stood up and placed a neatly folded towel beside the tub. "There's a spare bedroom in John's flat, you'll be rooming with him."

Joanne's head snapped in Polly's direction, she gaped at the older woman in disbelief.

"I couldn't possibly-"

"Hush now, it was his idea. You need a place to stay, don't you?"

Polly was right, but Joanne didn't feel right being indebted to the Shelbys. But she was now homeless and possibly being stalked by that strange Campbell man. She didn't have much choice.


	7. My Old Man (Said Follow The Van)

**I am HORRIBLE for not updating in two months! I wanted to say thank you to everyone who continues to read, follow, favorite, and especially review, for your ongoing patience. All of you inspire me so much to keep going, and I'm hoping to keep that inspiration going so I can continue to update this fic a bit more regularly! I'm going to go back and rewatch Peaky Blinders (once again) to get more motivation. Thank you all so much for your support, and as always: enjoy! Xoxo**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: My Old Man (Said Follow The Van)**

Joanne folded the sheets neatly, and tucked them under the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkled creases. She then placed the comforter over the bed. She looked down at the spare bed, now _her_ bed. She had spent her first night in John's flat, feeling awkward and keeping to herself unless the children need assistance. John had been acting odd as well, feeling flustered when he spoke to her. A lot of it was guilt from being harsh with her about James' injury so long ago, and more recently from lashing-out at Joanne about Katie finding the gun.

Peter came waddling into the room, only in his clothed, pinned diaper. From how it sagged under him, she determined it had been soiled. Joanne sighed, picking the toddler up and staring up at the ceiling – upstairs is where John slept. She wondered if he had left early and didn't check on his son, or if had forgotten to change Peter's diaper. Joanne knew John didn't mean to purposely neglect Peter, he was just a father who wasn't sure exactly what to do.

"John?" Joanne called at the end of the staircase.

There was no answer. Joanne carried Peter up the stairs, and into his room. Peter shared with William, who was sitting up in his bed, staring out the window. She smiled at William, who didn't return it, and set Peter down on his crib. She started preparing to change him.

"Did you father leave?" Joanne asked William.

"Aye, he left about an hour ago," William answered, his tone drowsy.

Joanne had her answer. She unpinned Peter's diaper and wrapped it up, and cleaned him up, then pinned a new diaper on Peter. She changed the toddler, and left him in his room to play with some blocks scattered on the floor. She brought the diaper downstairs, and readied a pot to boil water. She scrubbed the soiled cloth as clean as it could get, then placed it in the pot. After the cloth had become piping hot, and as clean as it could be, she removed the cloth and scrubbed again. She went outside to pavement backyard, then hung up the cloth outside to dry. Now that she had finished cleaning the diaper, she would start breakfast.

Joanne thoroughly washed her hands, now preparing to cook a meal.

The sound of a record scratching alerted Joanne from her work. She stopped prepping the meal and went to the living room to see what the commotion was.

She found James messing with a gramophone, moving the vinyl around, as Katie watched. He turned the crank, trying to produce a clear sound from the record, but it wasn't working. Joanne watched the children attempt to figure it out, a small smile on her lips. Katie eventually noticed her, and ran up to her in greeting.

"Jo, will you help us?" Katie asked, gazing up at her.

"Of course," Joanne answered kindly, going over to help James.

She adjusted the record, and double-checked all the settings on the gramophone, moving the stylus. The children watched her excitedly, eager to hear the music start playing. They sat on the floor, their eyes pinned to the cylinder-shaped loudspeaker.

"I didn't know ya'll owned a gramophone," Joanne commented.

"Aye, it's been put away for some time. Music stopped playing in the house when mum died," James replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Joanne looked at the children, her previous smile wilting. She shuddered at the thought of these children living such a cheerless life for the past couple years or so. Polly had told her John had gone through a bit of a depressive spell after his wife died, and the stress of raising his four children by himself had made it worse. She was suddenly very thankful that she had stumbled into these children's lives, who knew where they would be without her, not that she held herself on the same pedestal of a saint. She just wanted to help improve their lives, and ease John's stress.

The record crackled through the loudspeaker, and an upbeat tune filled the air. Piano keys and singing immediately followed, and the kids were already up on their feet. James and Katie started to dance, giggling as they stomped their feet, spun around, and clapped their hands to the beat of the song. Joanne couldn't help but join in the laughter; the rhythm of this song was contagious, and so was the happiness of the Shelby children. Katie grabbed her hand, tugging on it so she could join in the dancing. Joanne started to spin around, and the kids found great amusement in her dancing. The sound of the music had even summoned William from his room. He came down the stairs, curious as to what was going on.

 _"My old man said "Foller the van,_

 _And don't dilly dally on the way"._

 _Off went the van wiv me 'ome packed in it,_

 _I followed on wiv me old cock linnet_

 _But I dillied and dallied, dallied and I dillied_

 _Lost me way and don't know where to roam._

 _Well you can't trust a_ _special_ _like the old time coppers_

 _When you can't find your way 'ome._

 _Who'll put you up when you've lost your bedstead,_

 _And you can't find your way 'ome?"_

 _I stopped on the way to have me old half quarten,_

 _now I can't find my way home._

 _Well you can't trust a man when your life's in a van_

 _an' you can't find your way 'ome._

 _I had to stop to have a drop of tiddly in the pub_

 _Now I can't find my way home._

 _Stopped off to have one at the old Red Tavern_

 _And I can't find my way home."_

The song ended with an abrupt screech from the record. The three of them stopped dancing, laughing and out of breath. William fully entered the room then, eyeing all of them with great suspicion.

"Jo, can we listen to it again, please?" James asked, still panting.

"Father hid the gramophone for a reason," William interjected, not unkindly, but more out of fear. He seemed hesitant to elaborate further.

"Oi, c'mon Will, dance with us!" Katie invited, taking her older brother's hand.

William stared between her and the gramophone uncertainly. Joanne moved the stylus back, and started the crank. The song came to life again, filling the flat with the jaunty tune once again. James and Katie immediately started to dance, almost running into each other in fits of laughter. William observed them, but didn't join in the merriment. Joanne could've sworn she saw a ghost of a smile creep onto his lips.

"What is going on here?"

The four of them froze, and all glanced over at the living room entrance. John was standing there, staring at them in disbelief. His children began to shy away, the look of guilt plainly etched on their faces. Joanne removed the stylus from the record quickly, cutting off the music. No one spoke for a moment as John's eyes passed over all of them, his expression unreadable. William was the first to break the silence. He whispered something to his younger siblings, and they all went barreling up the stairs, avoiding eye contact with John.

"John, please, let me explain-" Joanne began.

"How did you find it?" John questioned, he looked over at the gramophone, almost sadly.

"I didn't, the children did."

John nodded solemnly, a reaction she didn't expect to receive. He walked over to the gramophone and ran his hand over the loudspeaker. He was silent for a while, studying the device as if it was a long-lost friend.

"This was Martha's," he stated.

Joanne started to feel terrible again, "I'm so sorry…"

John turned back to her and shook his head. She was once again surprised by his calm response. He removed his Jaxon cap, and placed it down on a nearby table. Joanne watched him with cautious eyes. John removed the record from the gramophone, and smiled down at it fondly.

"Marie Lloyd, Martha loved this record."

He placed it back on the gramophone, and moved the stylus back and started the crank. The song filled the air again. John looked at her and extended his hand. Joanne stared at him, perplexed.

"C'mon, Joanne, don' tell me you've never been asked to dance before."

Joanne took his hand doubtfully. "Not by a Shelby, I haven't."

John chuckled, and started to lead her in a dance. The steps were fast, and Joanne had a difficult time trying to match his rhythm. She was so confused by the sudden turnaround in his demeanor, that she couldn't fully grasp the movements. John twirled her, somewhat elegantly, and the fast-paced steps continued. Joanne held onto his hand tight, letting him guide her in different directions. By the end of the song, Joanne started to enjoy herself, and she thought John looked like he was, too. The song's finale was announced with another screech from the stylus, and the two separated.

Joanne and John scrutinized each other for a second, neither one able to really explain what had just happened. Part of Joanne wondered if she had fallen asleep and was dreaming. John Shelby wanting to dance with her? That seemed absolutely preposterous. But seeing John now, a mild smirk at the end of his full lips, she knew that this was reality.

"Maybe we shouldn't try such a fast song next time," Joanne panted, trying to catch her breath.

John laughed, a sound that was still foreign to her ears. "Oi, maybe _you_ need a bit more practice."

"Hey, that wasn't all me, you were draggin' me around the floor," Joanne replied, laughing.

John and Joanne laughed amongst themselves for a moment, before falling silent again. Joanne pondered if he was drunk, or maybe even high. Something different had shifted in him, she had never seen him this jovial before. She considered John as quick-tempered, but now seeing this softer side of him made her question her own judgement.

"John, are you feeling all right?"

He gave her a funny look. "What do you mean by that?"

Joanne shrugged, trying to find the right words to explain herself.

"I mean… dancing, and… you know, never mind, I need to get back to preparing supper," Joanne dismissed herself, but John followed her into the tiny kitchen.

"You think I can't have a bit of fun?"

She was relieved to still see a grin on his face, she was afraid she'd offended him.

"No, I'm just, glad you're in a good mood."

"Of course I am! The Shelby's are making money again, we're going to claim our stronghold against the Lees; everything is just falling into place," John rambled.

Joanne pretended to know what he was talking about. John continued on about business, as Joanne listened while she continued to prepare dinner. He seemed glad to have someone to talk to, and Joanne was perfectly happy to lend him her ear. He did take her in, after all, if not for him she'd be homeless right now. She wanted to put that whole predicament with Mary behind her. Thinking about Mary soured her mood. She kept her facial expression neutral so John wouldn't suspect, and let him continue on. He said something about checking on his kids, then wandered out of the room.

She was now left alone in the kitchen with her thoughts, trying to sing the song to herself so she wouldn't think about Mary and that scary police officer.

* * *

 _ **My Old Man (Said Follow The Van)**_ **\- written by Fred W. Leigh & Charles Collins**


End file.
